It all happened too fast.

One day, Jexy Bakian was fighting for his life in a sea of fire.  

The next, he was apparently getting married.

No one really knew *how* the process worked—except the Demon King himself, who had the speed, power, and shamelessness to make it legally binding across the entire realm in under an hour.

By the time Jexy realized what was going on, the entire city of Emberhold was covered in wedding banners.

He sat in the guild’s main hall, staring blankly at a pile of golden invitations.  

Each one had his name engraved in glowing red letters:  

**“Lord Jexy Bakian & Lady Lyssara Veinflare — The Union of Flame and Fortune.”**

He read it again.  

And again.  

And again.

Then finally, he muttered, “I haven’t even agreed to this.”  

Freya, who was inspecting a tray of wedding gifts, replied without looking up.  

“Too late, my lord. The invitations have already reached the Abyss Gate, and I hear even the angels are RSVPing out of curiosity.”  

“…Fantastic. Can’t wait to get smited by surprise guests.”

Rhazel popped his head through the door, wearing a ridiculous tuxedo.  

“Hey, boss! They’re already setting up the wine fountains!”  

Jexy blinked. “Wine… fountains?”  

“Yup! Three of them! One for red, one for black, one for ‘unknown origin.’”

“Good,” Jexy muttered. “Maybe I can drown myself in them.”

Across the city, preparations were chaos and luxury mixed into one.  

Black roses lined the streets, enchanted musicians rehearsed infernal ballads, and entire platoons of demons were repainting the roads in crimson gold.  

It was the most extravagant event the realm had seen in centuries.  

And the groom looked like he hadn’t slept since his engagement.

Meanwhile, in a distant palace of crystal and smoke, the Demon King himself paced in thought.

Dalph Bakian, the mighty ruler of destruction and chaos, was… worried.

Not about the ceremony, or the feast, or even his grandson’s mental state.  

But about something more delicate—the *bride’s family.*

Lyssara Veinflare had no parents.  

Her bloodline, once glorious, had long since faded into the ashes of history.  

The Veinflare clan—those who once commanded entire armies of flame—was now little more than a name whispered in old records.

And though Lyssara herself didn’t seem to care, Dalph did.  

A bride without a family was an insult to the ceremony of the Bakian house.  

And he wasn’t about to let his grandson’s wedding be “understaffed.”

So, he did what any responsible Demon King would do:  

he called in favors.  

Lots of them.

For days, magical messages flew across the ten realms,  

asking the other lords and ladies of the Demon Realm to help locate any surviving members of the Veinflare line.

But every report came back the same:  

**none found.**

Then, on the morning of the third day, a new voice entered his mind.  

Smooth, sultry, and unmistakably amused.

> “Oh, Dalph, my dear~”  

> “If you can’t find anyone from her clan, why not let *me* stand in as her family?”  

The Demon King froze mid-step.  

“…Saphiel Lureth?”

The Succubus Queen’s laughter rippled through the air like silk.  

> “Naturally. The poor girl deserves a proper escort, doesn’t she?  

>  And the House of Lureth *is* one of the Ten Thrones.  

>  It would be… scandalous to let your grandson marry without a dignified host.”  

Dalph stroked his beard.  

“Hmm. You’re not wrong. But you sure about this? You might start rumors.”  

> “Oh please, Dalph. I *am* the rumor.”  

He grinned. “Fair enough. I’ll take it.”

Moments later, he sent a direct message to the bride-to-be.

Lyssara Veinflare was in her quarters when the black flame sigil appeared before her, carrying her king’s voice.

> “Girl, relax. I’ve found someone to represent your side of the family.  

>  Queen Saphiel Lureth herself will attend in your name.”  

Lyssara blinked, her mind barely processing the words.  

Her hands, which had been nervously arranging wedding documents, froze midair.

“W–what?”  

> “She’ll handle all the bride’s honors. You just show up and don’t burn anything, got it?”  

Then the flame vanished.

Lyssara sat there, staring at the spot where the message had appeared.  

Her expression was blank, her thoughts even blanker.

She whispered, “…I’m… getting married?”  

Silence answered her.  

“…I’m really getting married?”  

She sank into her chair, cheeks faintly pink.  

“I can’t believe this is actually happening…”

At the same time, in the groom’s quarters, a very different reaction was unfolding.

Jexy stood at the window, watching the fireworks of preparation outside.  

Demons were hanging banners that said “LONG LIVE THE HEIR!”  

Children were chanting his name in the streets.

He turned to Freya with a dead stare.

“Tell me this is a fever dream.”  

She smiled serenely. “You’re wide awake, my lord.”  

“Then I hate this reality.”

Rhazel burst in again, holding a scroll.  

“Boss! The guest list just updated!”  

Jexy didn’t look. “How bad is it?”  

“Three dragonlords, five nobles, two demon popes, and one confused angel.”  

“…Great. A full apocalypse worth of witnesses.”

He covered his face and sighed.  

“Someone, please, cancel me.”

Freya chuckled softly. “Too late, my lord. The whole realm already thinks you’re married.”  

“Yeah? Well, the whole realm can go to hell. I’m already living in one.”

And so, as the wedding preparations thundered across the Demon Realm,  

the bride sat in quiet disbelief,  

the groom contemplated self-exile,  

and the king of all demons was gleefully coordinating flower arrangements.

It was, without question, the fastest—and most unwilling—wedding in history.